by Martin Roth
From the darkened windscreen of an unmarked police mini-bus the Shrine of Remembrance - pink and purple and yellow in the harsh spotlights - resembled some hulking obelisk mounted on the spot centuries earlier to appease long-forgotten gods, like a Stonehenge rock.
“This is Australia,” whispered Briony, though I didn’t get the point. We were parked near the foot of the steps, part of a line of official vehicles, and had just a distant view of the service. But we could see hundreds of people arriving and leaving, of all ages, many in military uniform. There was little talking. But some of those leaving were in tears.
It was Pastor Thomas who seemed most affected. “Look at that,” he growled. “This is all for the great contribution of our soldiers. And you know what inspired them? The sacrifice of Jesus. Where else do you see a sight like this? Isn’t Australia the greatest Christian country on earth? The love of Christ acted out before our eyes.”
I didn’t want to disagree with my own pastor, especially when I was still feeling guilt about the confrontation in his church with Alberto. But I did. I turned painfully in my seat towards him. “Do you think all these people really understand sacrifice any more? They say they support East Timor but they don’t know what actually happened there. All the slaughter. They don’t truly understand what soldiers go through in war. They have these vague romantic feelings about the virtues of sacrifice. But they’re too wrapped up in their own lives to really understand the true meaning of the word.”
“Come on, Johnny,” said Rohan from the back seat. “That’s a bit steep. Shelve the bitterness for a while. It’s Anzac Day, after all. Let’s allow ordinary decent Aussies like myself a chance to indulge in a touch of escapism. Pretend our empty lives have meaning.”
Pastor Thomas spoke again. “You’ve got it about right,” he said to Rohan. “Ordinary decent Aussies have gone and filled the spiritual emptiness in their lives with consumer goods and materialism. Yet they’re still not satisfied. They know something’s missing. That’s why they’re turning up at Anzac celebrations in such growing numbers.”
He pointed out the window. “Look at all those young people. You didn’t see that ten years ago. They’re searching for a spiritual dimension to their lives. And they’re learning that you can’t get spirituality on your own terms. Anzac is teaching them that self-denial and sacrifice are necessary.”
“Time to head back,” interrupted our driver, a young policewoman with short-cropped blonde hair and the shoulders of an East German swimmer. She started up the motor and drove slowly back onto St Kilda Road.
But the pastor was determined to continue his sermon. “I saw revival in the outback, and I see the seeds of revival now in the cities, and it’s centered around Anzac. The spirit of sacrifice is going to return to Australian culture. God’s spirit is at work. You watch.”
He was still talking when we arrived back at the operations center.
It was only there that I had the chance to ask one of the senior officers the question that had been nagging me. “How did you know to stop the van - the flower van? Were you stopping every car, or did you have some kind of tip off? You seemed to know that I’d be there under all the wreaths.”
He sipped at a cup of hot chocolate. “We got a phone call from a man named Tom Traherne. From a cell phone in New Zealand. Extremely agitated he was, to put it mildly. Said he was feeling pretty bad that there was this plot to blow up Australian soldiers and he had to tell the authorities. He gave us very precise details of what was planned.”
The officer put down his mug and looked me straight in the eye. “Said he couldn’t have the deaths of Australian soldiers on his conscience.”
Tears welled in my eyes. I just wanted to sleep.